Page 4 of The Beach Trap

“Not now,” he said, and started the car.

“But, Daddy—”

“I saidnot now, Kitty.”

Kat shut her mouth. She knew better than to argue. But as the car pulled away, she turned around in her seat to look at her best friend through the rear window. She was still standing outside the lodge in her green Camp Chickawah T-shirt, her mouth hanging open.

The car drove away, bouncing gently on the dirt road, and Kat watched as Blake’s pale face grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

FIFTEEN YEARSLATER

CHAPTER ONE

KAT

The laughter of teenage girls without a worry in the world might be my very favorite sound. Of course, these girls aren’t nearly as carefree as I’d been at their age.

When I was fifteen, my biggest problems were the fact that my BFF Jill and I both had a crush on the same boy, and that my parents wouldn’t let me buy clothes from Hollister because they weren’t ladylike.

These girls have adult-size problems: Luna’s mom is in prison again; LaTasha’s living with her sister, who works three jobs just to make ends meet; and Chelsea told me her mom couldn’t afford groceries last week.

While their stories break my heart, their laughter puts it back together again. As a volunteer at the Peachtree Boys’ and Girls’ Center, I know I’m here to be the helper, but honestly, they help me, too.

Outside these four walls, my world is focused on designer labels and fashion trends—but inside, I’m reminded that safety, stability, and unconditional love have so much more value.

“What do you think, Miss Kat?” Chelsea asks, holding her tissue-paper-flower headband up for me to see.

Since they’re too young for margaritas, we’re celebrating Cinco de Mayo with an arts and crafts project I saw on TikTok, making Frida Kahlo–inspired floral crowns.

“Very festive.” I try to match Chelsea’s smile with one of my own, and hope she can’t see through it. The girls are so in tune to troubles that I make a conscious effort to leave mine at the door. But you can’t always control when grief decides to rear its ugly head.

“How about me?” Jackie asks, striking a pose with her tissue flowers.

“Gorgeous,” I tell her, as I fold sheets of pink and orange tissue together to make a flower of my own. While the girls tolerate these crafty activities, I genuinely love them. They remind me of simpler times back at summer camp when we told time by the morning reveille and the dinner bell, when a swim in the lake counted as bathing and the only thing on my agenda was soaking up every minute.

“You can take my picture if you want,” Jackie offers, batting her eyelashes.

My smile falters. Ever since the girls found me on Instagram, they’ve been not-so-subtly hinting they’d like to be featured in my feed.

“It’s against the rules,” I remind her. “It’s for your privacy that I’m not allowed to post your pictures.”

“I won’t tell,” Jackie says with a sly smile.

“Me either,” Chelsea chimes in.

“But one of her seventy-five million followers might,” LaTasha adds.

“Seventy-five thousand,” I say, correcting her, although both numbers are so beyond the girls’ comprehension the difference doesn’t mean much.

“Y’all are crazy,” Luna says, ripping a sheet of tissue paper she’s supposed to be folding into a flower. “She don’t care about no rules. She just doesn’t want to ruin her fancy image by hanging out with the likes of us.”

“That’s not true,” I tell Luna, lowering my voice so it doesn’t sound defensive. “I’m sure my followers would love to know I spend time volunteering—but I don’t hang out with you guys for the likes.”

“Then why do you?” LaTasha asks.

“Because I like you,” I tell her. “I like all of you.”

The girls light up, all except for Luna, who scowls. I wish I could tell her that I understand, that I know how hard it can be to let new people into your heart once you’ve been hurt. But they have trained counselors to help with the heavy things like that—I’m just here to be a positive role model and supportive friend.

---